All the Difference
by theicemenace
Summary: Clint Barton's relationship with a shadowy figure known as the Black Widow before they went to work for the "good guys."
1. Chapter 1

**Avengers**

**All the Difference**

**Chapter One**

The first time Clint saw her, she stood with a group consisting of two diplomats, a senator, his wife and one other. She'd been hanging on the arm of a prince with ties to a Columbian drug lord-also in attendance. As much as he wanted to take out the drug lord, his target was the prince. Taking out one or the other would collapse the cartel's business structure stopping them in their tracks. Not that they wouldn't pick up and move elsewhere, but at least for a while, the corridor would be closed down and the drugs wouldn't be on the streets. It would only delay the inevitable, but if it saved even a handful of kids and adults, he'd done his job.

Their eyes met and each knew the other. Not their name, country of origin or what side they were on, but on the inside where their real selves hid from the rest of world. Kindred spirits. With a nod, he let her know. Her only response was to sip from the champagne flute in her left hand, lower her thick lashes and turn her back on him. A dismissal or to show disdain, he couldn't tell without a closer inspection.

Clint hadn't come here to make new friends though her dress created within him the urge to get to know her better. Strapless, it fitted her like a second skin down to her thighs where it lay in flurries down to the floor. Lace and sparkling accents drew the eye when she moved. Her long brown hair was worn up exposing the length of her neck and showed off the necklace and earrings that could've single-handedly relieved the national debt of a small country.

Using the name Robert Cleary, he'd come to the party with one of his contacts on his arm: an independent defense coordinator who had formerly been nothing more than a cog in an arms dealer's machine. After Clint had taken the man out, Mia had assumed command and had put them to work with a new focus which had eventually made her one of the richest women in her country. Not that Clint knew which country she'd come from.

By morning, the prince _and_ the drug lord were dead. His mission had been the prince and _she_ had obviously eliminated the drug lord. Afterward, he returned to the US and she went to wherever she lived when not cozying up to a man who made his fortune from other people's misery.

~~O~~

The next time they met was nearly a year later at São Paulo Fashion Week. Only this time they weren't at a party. It was the middle of the night and they'd both chosen the same parking garage as a vantage point from which to spy on their targets in the hotel across the street. Clint took a moment to admire her beauty. Even with her hair stuffed up under a knit cap, she was attractive, though he would never be deceived by looks. This woman was deadly and not afraid to let him know it. He'd have to tread lightly.

He completed his recon and she hers, both giving the other a wide berth out of professional courtesy. When finished, he climbed over the parapet and made his way to ground level. At the corner, he turned toward the safe house and just ahead, there she was. She was dressed in a skin-hugging black jumpsuit with boots instead of heels. Her hair was red and short rather than brown and long, but he'd recognize that walk anywhere. A strut with a little runway vamp thrown in, making her seem less haughty, more approachable. _If that's possible,_ he thought. If he were stupid enough to hit on her, he'd most likely end up in the city's morgue as a John Doe. No one would know where he was, and he would be doomed to spend eternity in a pauper's grave at the edge of town. They would have to get a few things straight if the two of them were to continue this strange little dance. He couldn't let her keep popping up during one of his ops, getting in the way or distracting him.

On the way in, he'd seen her take out the guards and had used their absence to his own advantage. This wasn't the first time he'd arrived somewhere in her wake, though they hadn't actually seen each other the last few times. Didn't need to. Her reputation preceded her. In his opinion, she had too many unwarranted deaths to her name. A name that struck fear in the hearts of many who heard it. Black Widow. Clint found the name apt. She would cozy up to a mark and he would be dead within hours. Days at the outside.

Clint jogged to the corner she'd turned and found himself on the ground looking up at her kneeling over him. She had one hand around his throat and the other upraised to deliver a blow that could maim or kill. "Why are you following me?"

Her voice was smooth, unaccented. Even tinged with a growl of irritation he liked the slight purring edge it had as she spoke to him in French. "I'm _not_. We're just going in the same direction."

"Did Petrovitch send you?"

"Don't know anyone by that name." Not wanting to hurt her, Clint didn't retaliate for the attack. Not yet. "Wanna let me up?"

She didn't immediately release him, her hazel eyes searching his. The wrist of her upraised hand glowed as energy surged. He'd heard about those weapons. Widow's Bites they'd been dubbed by those who had been unlucky enough to experience their sting. The flame of distrust burned in her gaze, but she did release him. "You've never heard of Ivan Petrovitch?"

With all sincerity, Clint shook his head as he stood. "No. Are you in trouble? Let me help."

"Don't _need_ your help." Her words were clipped, angry.

The shrill reverberation of police sirens came near as did the sound of running footsteps. Clint turned to run. "Cops. Let's get out of here."

Instead of following him, she grabbed his hand dragging him into the doorway of a long closed storefront. The windows hadn't been washed in at least a decade, the brown paper covering the inside of the glass faded white from the sun.

He put his hands up to keep from falling against her making it appear that they were having a private moment alone. When he opened his mouth to protest, her arms snaked around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. The first time he'd seen her across the room, he'd sensed a deep well of passion. Her responses when he returned the kiss with equal intensity proved him right.

The police pounded around the corner and kept going, several of the men making off-color remarks about their presence in the dark. As soon as they were gone, she pushed him away. Her eyes were wide and chest heaving, as was his.

Clint backed up a step, rubbing a hand down his face. She turned her back on him almost as if she were dismissing him. A moment later the door opened. She stepped daintily over the threshold and when he didn't immediately follow, she took him by the hand and dragged him inside.

Her hand came up to cover his mouth, one finger across her lips to indicate silence. The puzzled stare he shot at her changed to shock when she shed her jacket then helped him off with his. They stood there looking into each other's eyes.

Slowly so as not to startle her, Clint's hands came up to caress her shoulders sliding towards her neck and up to frame her face. He leaned forward to press his mouth to hers, parting his lips when she sought entrance.

Her arms snaked around waist, using that leverage to pull him with her towards the far corner of the abandoned store. His mind cleared just for a moment and he realized that this must be one of her safe houses. Now that he'd seen it, this would also be the last time she came here. As soon as he was gone, she'd clear out.

A thin mattress lay in the corner. Though it was old, the bed clothes and blanket were clean. Clint toed off his shoes and she did the same. Then, when she yanked his shirt from his waistband, he wrapped her in his embrace and tumbled them onto the mattress, rolling over so that she was lying along the length of his body. Her lips broke from his as she sat up, her backside pressing down on his thighs. Crossing her arms, she grasped the hem of her top lifting it quickly over her head and tossing it aside, uncovering the fact that she wore nothing underneath. That was the last coherent thought Clint had for some time.

~~O~~

When he awoke just before dawn, he was alone. He made a fast and thorough search, relieved when he found she hadn't taken his weapons or his ammo. Dressing quickly, he left the store by the alley door and returned to his own safe house near the park.

He checked that all the windows and doors were locked, set the alarms then flopped onto the bed fully dressed not waking up until his alarm rang at six in the evening. Going to the tiny kitchen, he dumped a can of chunky soup into a disposable bowl, covered it with a paper towel and put it in the microwave. Shedding his clothes, he climbed in the shower, getting out just as the microwave dinged.

With the towel around his waist and water still dripping from his hair, Clint ate the lukewarm soup as he walked back to the bedroom. In between bites, he got dressed and packed for his return home.

After carrying the trash to the incinerator down the alley, Clint returned for the bag and his bow case. By midnight, he was on his way back to the US sitting in first class. When he landed at La Guardia, he stopped in the bar for a quick snack and a beer, listening to the news program with only ten percent of his attention until he heard the name of the hotel where his target had died.

Smoke still drifted through the air though it looked as if the São Paulo fire department had everything under control. The correspondent, an Asian woman with short dark hair, stood at ground level with the hotel as a backdrop.

"…_the authorities here in São Paulo have just informed us that one of the deceased is none other than Italian clothing designer, __Federico Pisani. However, the designer was already dead before the fire started having been __pierced through the heart with a purple arrow. I'm told this is the calling card of an assassin known only as Ronin. At this time, there is no description of the shadowy figure as no one has even seen him. He comes and goes without a sound leaving death in his wake._

"_Also dead are industrialist Viktor Haugen, his wife, supermodel Giacomina Toldo, and their two children._" A photo of the family in happier times flashed up on the screen. "_Nine-year-old Mikayla and six-year-old Darius were found in the second bedroom of their suite having died in their sleep of smoke inhalation._"

Movement in the background caught Clint's attention, the rest of what the reporting was saying fading into the background. A woman was standing with a group of people watching the drama unfold. Unexpectedly, she turned and angrily pushed her way through the crowd and was gone. Though the resolution wasn't great, he'd still recognized her as the Black Widow, and the woman who had used him to relieve a bit of tension one night. It had been a massive boost to his male ego, but he wasn't so arrogant as to think it would ever happen again.

~~O~~

Extending his hand, Clint helped Mia from the back of the limo. She gave instructions to the driver and he pulled away just as another arrived. Tugging on his cuffs, he appeared to be completely engrossed in the process while at the same time checking out the newest arrivals for his target. The man always arrived fashionably late which meant he would be here any moment.

The uniformed greeter opened the door of a snow white limo and a slender leg extended out onto the sidewalk, the foot barely covered by sandals with four inch heels. They were attached to her feet by only two narrow straps, one around her slim ankle and the other across the top of her foot just behind the toes. Then came its mate, the slit in her midnight blue dress exposing the length of her leg up to the top of her thigh. A thigh he recognized.

One long fingered hand floated in the air and was taken by the greeter to help her stand. The single shoulder dress was covered from top to bottom in sequins the same color as the dress giving it depth and sparkle. A slight sweeping train added flair and style.

Clint's eyes traveled up to the fitted bodice and past to the diamonds and platinum that surrounded her neck and adorned her ears. When one hand came up to brush at the few strands of hair trailing down her temple, he saw the brilliance of a matching bracelet.

Startled, Clint saw the familiar face surrounded by long blonde hair and blue eyes looking out at the world. Those eyes scanned the crowd as they made their way inside the mansion, not even pausing when they passed him. And he didn't blame her. The beard he'd grown for this op obscured his most prominent features, his dimples.

Mia touched him on the arm and he reluctantly turned from his contemplation of the second assassin, giving his date all of his attention. The mansion was so big it looked more like a hotel than someone's home. On the upside, Mia had been invited to stay the night, and as her escort he was automatically included in the offer. It would give him plenty of time to carry out his self-imposed mission. The owner of the home wasn't the target, but one of his guests was. And as luck would have it, the man was on a separate floor in the same wing.

Hours later, Clint was introduced to a group of people. One of which was his target and the other the assassin he'd encountered on several occasions, the woman known only as the Black Widow. He briefly thought of tricking her into taking out his target for him, but dismissed that thought because the only way to know it had been done right was to do it himself.

The man making the introductions was the owner of the home, Greek shipping magnate Dennis Panagos standing with his wife, Ella. "May I introduce Artyom Drakov, his daughter, Irina and her fiancé, David Rollins, my son, Michael and his friend, Marie-Thérèse Goubert. Everyone, this is Mia Sinjin."

"A pleasure to meet all of you." Mia smiled up at Clint. "And this is Robert Cleary."

At least now Clint had a name for his adversary. With a smile, he shook hands with the men and kissed Irina's hand. When he came to Marie, he brushed his lips over her knuckles, speaking to her in flawless French. "You look familiar, Mademoiselle Goubert. Have we met before?"

The eyes he knew to be hazel took on a slightly dangerous gleam as she reclaimed her hand, answering him in the same language, "That is not likely, Monsieur Cleary. This is my first visit to Crete."

"My mistake." He smiled humbly, holding up his empty glass, he switched back to English. "Would anyone else care for a refill?"

Clint took orders then to his surprise, Marie gave him a stunning smile. "I will go with you."

At the bar, Clint gave the drink list to the bartender. "And one dirty martini with two olives." Marie accepted her drink, taking one small sip. Clint had seen her do the same thing earlier then ditch it. Obviously she wanted to keep a clear head for the coming festivities. She bit one of the olives from the small plastic sword and chewed it.

While they waited for their order to be filled, Marie looked out over the swirling mass of humanity as if bored by everything. "Drakov is mine."

Clint didn't know which surprised him most. The fact that she knew his reason for attending the party or that she spoke to him in Russian. He returned the favor. "We'll see."

David Rollins had left the group and was now talking to an African man dressed in a black _agbada_ with a matching hat. There was something about Rollins that struck a chord in Clint setting all his senses on alert. For his reluctant companion as well to by the slightest intake of breath when her eyes had followed to where he was looking.

Rollins was Clint's height, perhaps ten years older with short dark hair that had begun to recede. He looked harmless, like an accountant or an IT specialist, but the feeling he'd gotten from the man when they shook hands told him to be cautious. Rollins was just as dangerous as the woman standing next to him. Chancing a glance at Marie, he saw the same suspicion in her eyes. Good. At least they agreed on _something_.

~~O~~

Listening at the door for the guards to pass, Clint tugged on a pair of leather gloves that had been made specifically for him. His work afforded the luxury of having the best of whatever he wanted though he was circumspect in his personal purchases, living modestly in a fourth floor walk-up. He splurged on security, the tools of his trade and his car, but seldom anywhere else that others might see. To his neighbors and friends, he was Clint Barton, a charter pilot for the rich and famous. But to those with the right connections, he was Ronin, a master archer and assassin for hire. He'd been at this long enough that he could be choosy in the jobs he accepted.

Picking up the black case, he stepped into the hallway. It was dimly lit and empty as he moved from one small patch of darkness to the other staying within the surveillance cameras' blind spots until he reached the hidden passage. Easing the door open, he stepped inside and shut it without a sound. He'd already scoped this area of the mansion while he'd been "lost" looking for the bathroom. The passage stayed straight for twenty yards then turned. At the end of that passage was a set of stairs that would take him to the secret door that opened into Drakov's room.

As soon as entered the secret passage, the hairs on the back of his neck alerted him to the presence of another. He swung his left arm around to take the person out…and missed! A moment later he found himself slammed face first onto the floor, a strong arm across his neck and a knee in the middle of his back. His strong left arm was twisted behind him as a vaguely familiar voice said, "If I'd wanted you dead, there've been plenty of opportunities to take the shot. Now, I'm gonna let you up, but if you even _look_ at me wrong, I will take you down and when you wake up, you'll find yourself locked in a place that makes Gitmo look like a trip to Disney World."

The pressure disappeared and Clint was on his feet again. Irina's fiancé stood before him dressed just as he was in a black turtleneck, slacks and leather gloves. One finger at a time, Rollins pulled the gloves off and shoved them into his back pocket. Clint didn't offer to shake hands and neither did Rollins. It was what he said next that surprised the archer.

"My real name is Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. SHIELD."

Clint's only reaction was the lift of one eyebrow. "What's this about?"

If what the agent had to say didn't hold his interest, he'd be on his way with a "thanks, but no thanks." Coulson gestured for Clint to have a seat then made himself comfortable on the floor across from him.

"We have a proposition for you."

"I'm listening." Making a big show of being relaxed, Clint pulled off his gloves and waited for Coulson to get to the point.

A blood curdling scream split the air, the sound of footsteps on the main stairs then in the hallway ended with the babble of voices, all of which was ignored by both men. Only Clint's eyes twitched as the cries of a hysterical woman came closer, passed by their hiding place and were cut off by the closing of a door.

A short time later, Clint heard the word _a__stynomia_, the Greek word for police. By the time sirens could be heard, Clint was back in his room, Coulson having given him much to think about as he stared out the window.

Going into the bathroom, he stripped out of his clothes to pull on pajama pants and a T-shirt. Rather than disturbing Mia by crawling back into bed with her, he took the blanket folded on top of the antique chest at the foot of the bed and lay down on the love seat with his feet hanging off the end.

The next morning, the staff brought breakfast in bed for all the guests, and when he finally ventured out for a walk in the garden, he ran into Marie. She was lightly trailing a finger over the petals of bright red anemones. He stepped at her side as if he too found the flowers fascinating. "Your name isn't really Marie, is it?"

The left side of her mouth lifted in a half smile. "No more than yours is Robert…or is it Ronin?"

"What _should_ I call you?" She flicked her eyes to him them back to the flowers, but said nothing. "Clint." There was no answer for a long time then she turned to go, and he resisted reaching out to stop her. "I told you _my_ real name. It's only fair you tell me yours."

Michael, the son of the owner, waved from the upper balcony. Over her shoulder, she said, "Natalia," then hurried away.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Avengers**

**All the Difference**

**Chapter 2**

Just six months after the Drakov incident, as Coulson referred to it, Clint became an official agent of SHIELD. Knowing his disdain for being the center of attention, Coulson and Fury presented him with his ID, badge and phone in private with little more than a handshake and a nod.

He spent his first month backing up other agents, his job consisting mostly of listening in on conversations and being bored. Rather than complain, he just bit his tongue and smiled as he played the occasional prank on agents with whom he'd become friendly during his training. And each time, Coulson would give him a stern talking to. Clint would then give it a day or so and start again.

When he started feeling closed in on the helicarrier, he'd climb up onto the conning tower and just sit, like he was now. Familiar footsteps rang on the catwalk below and moments later, Coulson climbed out and dropped down beside Clint, his pristine suit incongruous beside Clint's well-worn workout clothes.

"We have a mission for you."

Exhaling loudly, Clint shifted his feet. "If it's like the last one, pass."

"We want you to take out a target for us."

That got Clint's attention and though he kept his features bland, something in the tone of Coulson's voice set alarms clanging. "Who?"

"The Black Widow."

~~O~~

Entering the SHIELD safe house in Bangalore, Clint tossed the bow case on the bed and his jacket over a chair with way more force than necessary. "****!"

He'd been following the Black Widow back and forth across Europe, Asia and parts of Africa for two months. Every time he got close, she managed to get away. He was as sure as he could be that she didn't know he was looking for her. It was just that while _he_ was good, _she_ was better, though he'd never say so to her face _or_ to anyone else. The intelligence network she employed had to be vast if she could keep more than one step ahead of him when he was actively hunting her.

Then again, maybe that was the problem. They'd run into each other by accident on more than a few occasions. If he stopped looking for her…the computer beeped indicating he had a message, he yanked out the chair and sat down. The Instant Messaging box was open.

_*Ever been to Phoenix?*_

Out loud, he said, "Never." _Why?_

_*It's a nice place to visit this time of year.*_

_Who is this?_

There was a pause before, *_Do you always ask questions when a woman invites you into her web?*_

_Said the spider to the fly._

_*You _do_ have a sense of humor. I was beginning to wonder.*_

Neither of them said anything for a while then he asked, _Why don't you trust me?_

*_Trust has to be earned. I don't know you._*

_What about São Paulo?_ _We got to know each other fairly well that night._ She didn't answer for so long he thought she'd signed off.

*_You don't have to trust someone to have sex with them. So what's it gonna be, Ronin?_* If nothing else had convinced him of who he was talking to, it was the use of his now-former handle.*_Catch me if you can._*

Clint pulled at his upper lip in thought, then grinned as he typed, _Phoenix sounds like fun. I'll take the next plane out._

*_There's a chance of rain so bring an umbrella._*

A second later, she went offline. How had she found him? His SHIELD email address was classified and his personal one gave no indication of his real or nicknames. _Damn, she's good! _Grinning and shaking his head, he packed the duffle bag, removed the trash to the incinerator and headed for the private airstrip.

~~O~~

Wearing a pair of black scrubs, Clint pushed an eight-year-old boy in a wheelchair back to his room. He set the brakes, helped him into bed and pulled the covers up over him. "There you go, Adam."

He hooked the buzzer to the rails, unlocked the wheels and had gotten as far as the door when the boy called out, "What's your name?"

Clint started to give his alias, but thought better of it. He pointed at the boy and winked. "Call me Hawkeye."

The boy grinned. "Cool! See ya, Hawkeye."

On the plane from Bangalore to Phoenix, with a short stop in Quantico, Clint had worked up a cover identity. Upon arrival, he'd taken a job with Phoenix Memorial Hospital and the reason he was here had to do with the Black Widow. Clint had also used his SHIELD access to trace the IP address of the computer Natalia had used to contact him. That address belonged to a computer in the Billing department. She'd contacted him in what would've been the middle of the night for Arizona and Billing had been closed at that time.

His second night in the city, she IM'd him again, daring him to find her. For two weeks now they'd played this strange little game of the spider and the fly with him playing the part of her prey.

_She's already sucking the life out of me. When this is over, I'm taking a long vacation someplace dry._ A bright light flashed and almost on top of it came a loud crack of thunder that shook the building. A few people jumped then laughed at themselves. _Very dry._

Bringing his mind back to the mission, Clint shoved the wheelchair into a storage closet and headed for the nurses desk to let her know he was going on break. His job as an orderly allowed him free access to all patient rooms as well as most of the other areas where the Widow might be lurking. _Don't spiders like damp, dark areas? Maybe I should check the basement. _

He grinned at his own little joke as he let himself into one of the vacant offices where he booted up the computer and checked the search algorithm he'd gotten from one of SHIELD's IT geeks. It was programmed to even the playing field just a little by giving him a list of the Widow's possible targets here in Phoenix. The IM box popped up while he was still accessing the secure server at SHIELD.

*_Almost caught me this morning._*

That made Clint sit up and take notice as he retraced his steps. At no time had he been so distracted that he hadn't kept an eye on his surroundings looking for his target. And that's how he had to think of her because if he thought of her as a woman, especially as a woman he'd had sex with, it would make taking her out that much more difficult.

But it wasn't just that they'd slept together that had given him pause about taking on his first official assignment as an assassin. It was more the feeling that, deep down inside, she was a good person or had been until something happened to turn her into the killing machine she'd become.

_Where was that again?_

*_First floor near the laundry._*

_Just how long're we gonna keep dancing?_

*_Until the band takes a break then I'm in the wind again._*

_Not gonna happen, Natalia._ He paused just a moment then,_ That's not your real name, is it?_

*_You'll have to catch me to find out._*

_How about a hint, Nat?_

*_That would be too easy. And don't call me Nat._*

This strange flirting started to grate on Clint's nerves. He just wanted it to all be over with so he could get out of this hell hole. In Phoenix for less than a week and it had rained every damn day causing flash floods breaking all previous records for this time of year. Just two nights ago, he'd been in the ER when a couple came in. They'd spent more than twenty-four hours clinging to the branches of a tree after their car had been washed away with part of a two-lane road. Both were suffering from exposure and dehydration. They'd been released the next day.

Clint was about to respond to Natalia's last message when he heard a key in the door. Turning off the monitor, he darted into the closet and pulled the door shut leaving just a crack. The guy who came in had bodyguard written all over him.

He put a hand to his right ear. "Third floor offices clear." The response he received must have been positive because he nodded and left again.

Clint gave it another three minutes before returning to the computer only to find that Natalia had signed off. On the upside, the program had finally come up with a list of possible targets. All very rich and all had the distinction of having made their fortune off the misery of those less fortunate. At least the list was short and all but one lived in the area.

The fourth name was a reclusive billionaire from Romania, Valeriu Dobra, with highly questionable principles and business practices. The man hadn't been seen in public for several years and was only venturing out now because he needed delicate surgery that couldn't be obtained anywhere but the US. The list of the atrocities that had been attributed to Dobra over the years flashed in Clint's head making him queasy.

Accessing the hospital's internal server, he checked out the rooms Dobra would likely to be put in and committed all the information to memory. According to the records, Dobra would be checking in tomorrow morning. Assuming that was a lie to throw someone like him off the scent, Clint shut down the computer and left the office. Going to his immediate superior, he told her he had a family emergency and left for the day.

At the safe house, he took out his bow and arrows, no longer painted purple, to check over the special arrowheads he'd made in the lab on the helicarrier along with the quiver to allow him to pick and choose which to use. He doubted Natalia would be wearing armor so he would only need a regular head to do the job.

No matter how often he told himself that taking the Black Widow out would be a blessing for the world, the closer he got to actually doing it, the twitchier he became. The woman he'd spent just a single night with was dangerous. Of that he had no doubt. But was she a menace to society? There was no easy answer to that question. His head said yes, but his gut said no. And over the years, his gut had been right more than his head. Pushing it all to the back of his mind, he ate a sandwich, took a shower and lay down for a nap.

Later that night, he crept from the safe house and returned to the medical building across from the hospital. He jumped over the parapet onto the roof, landing lightly and making almost no sound. Creeping around to the far side, he came to the corner he'd chosen during his recon. It had the perfect vantage point for his purpose. Dobra had been brought into the hospital the back way and quickly spirited up to his room where Clint could see shapes moving against the curtains. The lights dimmed and a man came to stand to the left of the window. Bringing the infrared goggles to his eyes, he could see two others in the room with Dobra.

A sound caught his attention. Sweeping up his bow case and duffle bag, Clint crouched behind the raised skylight, soundlessly taking his bow and a single arrow from the case. Natalia. Russian for birthday. His mind supplied other variants while waiting for her to show, and sure enough, she came slinking across the rooftop stopping in the exact same spot he'd just occupied. Maybe she was doing recon, though if she'd been here as long as he suspected, she had plenty of time for that before he arrived on the scene.

Slowly standing, Clint sighted on the middle of her back, pulling the bowstring back to the anchor point. Keeping her in sight all while she was peering through a set of binoculars, he waited for the right moment. What if he was wrong and she wasn't here to take out Dobra? That thought was dismissed immediately because, knowing what he did about the man, Clint would've volunteered to take the guy out himself, if given the chance.

But he did agree with Coulson and Fury. Too many innocent bystanders had been killed by the Black Widow and had to be stopped in her quest for revenge. Still, he hesitated to take the shot.

Suddenly, she was on her feet and running toward him as she shoved the binoculars into a case attached to her small waist. There was no fear in her eyes. Just grim determination. He relaxed his arms, the arrow pointed at the ground, and prepared to engage her in battle, but she run past him to a square of metal inset into the roof.

"We have to get out of here!" She opened an access hatch he hadn't seen, looking at him over her shoulder. "Come _on!_"

And then he heard it. The staccato beat of a helicopter's rotors. Looking into the sky, he saw bright spotlights sweeping over the rooftops. Grabbing his case and duffle bag, he hooked the bow over his head and he followed her down through the hatch pulling it closed just as the police chopper reached their building.

Her footsteps rang on the ladder below him then stopped when she reached the bottom. Clint jumped over the last three steps and turned to see her retreating down a darkened hallway. He was right behind her as they entered the stairwell. At ground level, he reached for his lock pick to open the door, stopping when she put a hand on his arm and shook her head. Looking from her to the door, he made the decision to keep trusting her.

They kept going down, eventually coming to a locked door with the words "authorized personnel only" stenciled on it in red to indicate danger for anyone who disobeyed. Clint snorted to himself as he picked the lock while Natalia kept watch. The door opened and he urged her through ahead of him. She obviously knew where she was going and he didn't so he had to rely on her not to lead them-_him_ into trouble.

Outside, he followed Natalia around the side of the building and into a thick cluster of bushes. She backed out a motorcycle, slinging one slender leg over watching him as he collapsed the bow and tucked it into the case. Snapping the closure, he slung the case and duffle bag over his shoulder and climbed on the back just as she took off.

Weaving in and out of the city streets for nearly an hour, she finally pulled to the curb and stopped. "Here's where you get off, Ronin."

"That's _not_ my name. Not anymore."

"Then what is it?"

Clint thought back to his time at the circus. He'd given the boy his former stage name and that seemed as good a one as any. "Hawkeye."

Natalia nodded once, her red hair fluttering in the warm breeze. "See ya around, Hawkeye."

He watched her disappear, hitched the bag and case higher on his shoulder and turned in the direction of the safe house working out in his head why he hadn't gone through with his assignment when he had the chance, and why he'd trusted her when he had every reason not to. By the time he reached his destination, he'd come to the conclusion that his reluctance had nothing to do with the one night they'd spent together. It was more…instinctive. Growing up around carnies, he'd learned to trust those instincts and his were saying that there was more to the Black Widow than her reputation.

~~O~~

At the hospital the next day, Clint spent as much time on Dobra's floor as he could get away with while still keeping a low profile. Despite his wish to see the man dead, he still had a mission to complete though it was looking more and more like this would be his first failure since joining SHIELD.

He'd lain awake much of the night working out how to turn the Black Widow around. If she could be transformed into a force for good, she'd be even more formidable. They'd worked well together on the Drakov incident and he could see them doing so again.

Clint pushed a cart filled with used food trays toward the elevator on his way to the kitchen. Coming toward him was one of the housekeeping staff, a short woman with mousy brown hair. He'd seen her before. She always walked with her head down as if afraid to meet anyone's eyes. If she would stand up straight with her head erect, it would completely change the way others saw her, but that wasn't his problem. He was here to do a job, not counsel the staff. Turning the corner, Clint glanced back at the woman and stopped. She looked different from the back. Familiar, like…Natalia.

Shoving the cart into the elevator, he hit the button for the lower level then headed back toward Dobra's room. If she planned on taking her mark out now, there was little chance she'd get away. Better to do it at night when there were fewer witnesses and the cover of darkness. Unless she planned on getting away in the ensuing panic. Then again this _was_ a hospital. Panic wasn't in their job descriptions.

She knocked on the door, the guard came out with a wand to scan her body then let her inside. As he reached the door, he heard the crackle of electricity and muted thumps as she took down the guards then a few words muttered in Russian. _This is for __Ludmilla Zaytesev. See you in _hell_, __Valeriu Dobra!_

_Sounds personal. Wander who __Ludmilla Zaytesev__ is? Maybe these last few target were all personal. That would explain her disdain for collateral damage._

As Clint reached the door, it opened and she ran past him toward the stairs. One of the guards must've gotten off an alarm because several men spilled out of the visitors' elevator headed in his direction. He stepped into their path and took them down with minimal fuss. One of the nurses was already on the phone to security giving Natalia's description to the police.

He took off his badge and tossed it on the desk. "I quit!"

Running after Natalia, Clint reached the stairs just as an explosion shook the building scattering debris and people all over. He barely missed being hit by the laundry cart when the attendant lost control. Alarms blared and personnel ran toward the devastation.

He took the same stairs finding a brown wig and discarded clothing on the third landing. He peeled off the fake goatee and sideburns he'd applied each day before coming to the hospital dropping them on top of the other items, pulled off his scrub top and yanked down the sleeves of the long sleeved T-shirt he wore underneath. Hopping first on one foot then the other, he took off the scrub pants to uncover a pair of khakis. He was already wearing plain white sneakers so his footwear stayed on.

Outside, he looked back and saw that the explosion had ripped through the room above as well as the ones on either side. In seconds, he heard sirens coming their way, but already he could see flames and smoke spilling from the broken window. He recognized the animal print curtains as the one in Adam's room. From the look of things, it was too late to save the boy or the people in the rooms surrounding Dobra's.

Clint caught a flash of red hair disappearing into the bushes near the parking garage and when the bushes parted as her motorcycle pushed through, he was standing there, arms crossed and feet shoulder width apart.

"Get out of the way," she growled.

"No. Just listen to what I have to say and if you still wanna go, I won't stop you." Her left hand flicked the engine off, both eyes on his hands as he shoved them into his pockets. From the left one he took a small device, pressing a button on the top. "That's so no one can eavesdrop on our conversation."

"Get on with it. I have a plane to catch."

Clint looked down at his feet. "You're not alone, Natalia. We can protect you."

Natalia's harsh bark of laughter annoyed him. "Don't _need_ protection."

"In case you haven't noticed, you've gotten on the radar of some pretty powerful people lately."

She shrugged carelessly. "Like who?"

"SHIELD." Again she shrugged. "Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We're a…specialized branch of Homeland Security."

"What do they want with _me?_"

Shifting his feet, Clint gave her one of his half-smiles, the kind meant to charm and disarm, but she wasn't falling for it. "_They_ don't. This is _my_ idea." He shrugged one shoulder at her expression.

"Why me?"

His expression turned serious. "We could use someone with your talents and connections. Shame for it to all go to waste."

"Why would it?"

"Because if you don't come in, Nat, I have orders to terminate you. This offer is only good for…" he looked at his watch, "…ten, nine, eight, seven, six…" Only her eyes moved as she thought over what he'd said.

~~O~~

Standing in the shadows, Clint watched Coulson approach the new safe house he'd set up just for this purpose. The senior agent knocked on the door and was let in. "What's going on, Barton?"

"The mission."

"It's done?"

Clint rubbed the back of his head as he paced to the other side of the seedy motel room. "Not yet. I…made a different call."

Without betraying his thoughts, Coulson said, "It wasn't _your_ call to make."

"If you'll have a seat, I'll explain." He knocked on the bathroom door. "Come on out, Nat." The Black Widow stepped boldly into the room. "Senior Agent Phil Coulson, Natasha Romanoff."

Clint gave the Americanized version of her Russian name as they'd agreed before Coulson's arrival. Coulson nodded for Natasha to sit. With a quick glance at Clint, she took the offered seat while Coulson took the one across from her. Crossing his arms in that way he had that made Clint feel like he was in the principal's office, though he'd never done so in his life, the senior agent waited patiently.

~~O~~

In the quinjet, Coulson approached Natalia, now Natasha, taking the seat next to her. "Until Fury's convinced you can be trusted, you'll have to stay in SHILED's guest quarters."

"That's code for detention." Natasha looked to Clint and he responded by raising his left hand, a pair of handcuffs dangling from one finger. Nodding in agreement, she said, "Of course."

Standing, she turned her back while he cuffed her. He held onto her arm as the hatch lowered then led her across the deck, every eye on the infamous Black Widow. Clint shortened his steps to accommodate her shorter stride, but somehow she made it seem like he and Coulson where her entourage rather than her jailers.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Many thanks to ladygris for her services as Beta reader and grammar Nazi.

Namaste,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**All the Difference**

**Chapter 3**

Clint had assigned himself the task of bringing Natasha her meals. She wasn't permitted to leave her cell and had no physical contact with the staff aside from the doctors. Even they were closely guarded. Most of the time he watched from the back of the observation room while she was questioned which happened on a near daily basis at the request of the WSC. As far as the council was concerned, request equaled order.

Every time Coulson left she would pace like a caged jungle cat still with that supermodel walk, but more…angry. He didn't blame her. She'd been on the carrier for two weeks and hadn't been out of that room even once.

Abruptly, Coulson pushed away from the table and left the room, glaring in Clint's direction. She knew Clint was there too, always did, even when she couldn't see him, and also glared as if daring him to come into the room with her just long enough for her to hit him. No way would he make _that_ mistake. He trusted her, but also knew she'd take her frustrations out on him because coming here had been his idea.

Natasha leaned on the small table peering at him with those hazel eyes. Clint had seen those orbs go dark on several occasions. Usually when she was angry, like now, and their one night together. He'd fallen asleep afterward and had no idea how long she'd stayed or if she'd left immediately after he'd dropped off. Not that it mattered one way or the other, as long as she hadn't shoved a knife between his ribs.

Clint took a step in her direction coming to a halt when she turned her back. An idea sent him running to his quarters and the Mess Hall. He returned shortly with a hardcover book, two cartons of milk and two snack sized packages of Oreos. He pushed one of each into the pass-through and knocked on the window.

Lying on the bed with her eyes closed, she jumped as if she hadn't heard him coming. She turned her head to glare at him again. Opening the milk, he tore the top off and unwrapped the cookies. Finally something piqued her interest.

"Why'd you come back?"

Crooking his finger in the universal "come here" gesture, Clint waited for her to retake her seat. "Thought I'd read to you." Natalia opened her milk and cookies, twisted one in half then licked off the cream. "It's by Richard Castle."

"Never heard of him."

Leaning back in the chair, she put her feet up on the table. He did the same on his side, dunked one of the Oreo's, and ate the entire thing. "This is his first Nikki Heat novel, _Heat Wave_." Around the bite of cookie, he began to read, "_It was always the same for her when she arrived to meet the body. After she unbuckled her seat belt, after she pulled a stick pen from the rubber band on the sun visor, after her long fingers brushed her hip to feel the comfort of her service piece, what she always did was pause. Not long. Just the length of a slow deep breath. That's all it took for her to remember the one thing she will never forget…_"

A sound entered their presence as he reached the end of the page. Not much. Just a small barely there sound. Sort of a cross between a sniffle and breath. Clint took a moment to dunk another cookie and shove it in his mouth. Still chewing the last bits, he picked up the milk and drank half of it down in one long gulp then chanced a glance at Natasha. Her head was tilted downward, one hand covering her eyes. The hitching of her breath and one lone tear sliding down her cheek convinced him that this had been a bad idea. "What's wrong, Nat?"

Shaking her head, Natasha looked away, getting to her feet and standing in the middle of the room. Her formfitting black pants, matching top and boots had been replaced with a set of scrubs and slippers. She was given nothing that could be used as a weapon though he knew her to be deadly even unarmed. He pictured her taking the place of Milla Jovovich in the final scene from the first _Resident Evil_ movie, fighting her way out of the lab wearing only a towel.

"Natasha?" Again she shook her head, red hair swishing back and forth. _To hell with orders._ Setting the book aside, Clint went to the secured door, entered his code then looked into the retinal ID scanner. The heavy door opened and he rushed to her side. "Nat?"

She didn't say a word, and when he took her in his arms, her body was taut with tension. He continued to hold her against his chest, rubbing a hand up and down her back until she began to relax. Except for that one tear, there hadn't been any other outward sign of distress. "Talk."

Her hands were trapped between them, palms flat against his chest. She used that position to push him away. "No."

Urging her to sit on the side of the bed, he took the chair, crossing his arms stubbornly. "I'm staying right here until you do."

"Fine." She lay down on the bed, knees up, staring at the ceiling. Before long, she started speaking so softly that Clint had to strain to hear. "I couldn't find what I needed to make the bomb. Some…improvisation was necessary so I could kill Dobra. I didn't know the blast would be larger than I planned. The boy in the room above and the patients on either side of Dobra died, and it took hours to contain the fire. Fourteen people-six under the age of ten-died because of _me_."

Without betraying his shock, Clint said, "I'm sorry." His sorrow was genuine, for all but Dobra, especially for the boy he'd known all too briefly.

"There's more. Remember Crete? When Drakov died, his daughter had a breakdown. She was cared for by the staff at home until she was better. Not long after that, she had a psychotic break and began killing people who resembled the person she holds responsible for her father's death."

Clint waited for her to continue. He knew the ending, but she needed to get it out. At least he'd learned that much from the staff shrink.

"I went into Drakov's room that night and she was there. We fought, Drakov tried to step in and was killed, stabbed in the jugular…by Irina. She holds _me_ responsible and she's right. I tried to track her down but was never able to catch her." The creak of the bed signaled Natasha moving. He looked up to see her standing beside him. "Do whatever you have to in order to convince Coulson and Fury, Clint. I _have_ to make this right."

"Nat…"

"You have my solemn promise that I _will_ return. I made her. Now I have to be the one to bring her in."

Her eyes pleaded with him to see her side, and reluctantly, he agreed. "Our buddy Phil was pretty hot when he left. Let's give him a day or so to cool off then I'll talk to him."

She nodded once, and Clint took it as a dismissal, that he was being sent on his way. After a brief squeeze of her hand which she didn't return, he left the cell securing it behind him. In his room, he booted up the workstation to do some digging, and what he found angered and horrified him.

~~O~~

Rain pounded on the roof of the safe house making Clint edgy. Natasha too, to go by the pacing and growling deep in her throat. "Will you _please_ sit down?"

She did as he asked, throwing herself into the chair next to the desk, crossing her arm and knees, one foot swinging against the side. Thump…thump…thump…thump…

Ignoring her attempt to get under his skin, Clint used the computer to bring up the info he'd compiled on Irina Drakov. After the death of her father and the break-up of her "engagement," Irina sold not only her father's legitimate business, but also his interest in the drug cartel. That along with the fortune her father had already amassed left her with more than enough money to keep her as she was accustomed for the rest of her life.

One day, she left on a tour of the world, going from one city to the next on a whim. She'd been gone for barely a month when police found the first body: a woman waiting tables in Paris stabbed twenty-three times and dumped in an alley. Ten days later, another woman was killed the same way in Nuremberg, Germany.

The list went on. Antwerp, Belgium. Las Palmas, Spain. Belfast, Ireland. Movi Sad, Serbia. Strasbourg, France. Berlin, Germany. London, England. Toronto, Ontario.

Irina kept moving from city to city, and each time she did, another woman died. Psychosis that deep had to show in her everyday life, but the police had been unable to catch her because she left nothing behind aside from the knife and more questions. They probably had DNA evidence because most people who stab someone also cut themselves. But without having her DNA in a system somewhere-not to mention the multiple jurisdictions-local law enforcement likely wouldn't track the killings back to Irina. However, Having DNA on the murder weapons only works if the killer's DNA is in the system.

He hit a couple keys and photos of the women sorted themselves out on the screen in order of their death. As he suspected, each one resembled Natasha in some way. She finally stopped kicking the desk and had scooted over next to him so she could see. Close enough that he could smell her unique scent. Added all together, the time they'd spent together prior to bringing her in from the cold barely added up to forty-eight hours, but he knew all he needed to about her.

The information Clint had gotten from Interpol and the airlines said that Irina was on her way to Amsterdam. "She has a reservation at Hotel Boulevard for four nights, arriving tomorrow. If she keeps to her pattern, she'll do it the first night then spend the next couple of days partying with friends as if nothing had happened."

"That's how it goes with her. Most of the time she behaves normally. Smiling, laughing, talking. But something inside her is…broken."

"We'll just have to find a way to fix her."

Sitting back in her chair, Natasha shook her head. "Not sure she _can_ be fixed."

Something in her voice disturbed Clint. As if Natasha had already made a decision regarding Irina. "Just so we're clear. The objective is retrieval, _not_ elimination."

Her voice and expression hardened. "I won't let her keep killing."

Pushing away from the desk, Clint rubbed his eyes and yawned. He shut down the computer and got to his feet. "Can we talk about this later? I'm beat."

"Sure. I'll take the first watch and wake you in four hours."

"You're not gonna wait till I go to sleep and leave, are you?"

Hands on her waist, she thrust one hip to the side. "Thought we were past this."

"Past what? Distrust? Suspicion? Doubt?" He shrugged and crossed his arms. "They're still there, tempered by this strange amity we've developed over the years."

Her mouth twisted as she held in a grin. "Amity or enmity?"

Snorting, Clint placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Both. See you in four hours."

In the room he'd appropriated as his, Clint kicked off his shoes and lay down with a groan. He listened for her to leave, but the only sounds were her footsteps as she prowled from one end of the apartment to the other. This safe house squatted in a rundown residential area not far from De Walletjes, the largest and best known red-light district in Amsterdam. It had been early afternoon when they arrived Clint received envious stares from men driving past on their way to or from their favorite brothels as he walked down the street at Natasha's side. To further annoy them, he'd added a swagger and a smirk.

They'd taken a roundabout way to the safe house, circling several blocks, down a few alleys then up the back stairs and into the apartment equipped with everything they'd need for their search, all state-of-the-art. Rolling over onto his stomach, Clint covered his head with the pillow and went to sleep.

Sometime later, Clint awoke with a start confused at first with the strange surroundings. On his side, he moved only his eyes through the room, seeing nothing out of place. Out in the hall, he crept to the living room. Natasha lay curled in a ball on the end of the sofa, one hand under the pillow, probably around the hilt of a knife, and the other between her knees. She looked cold, but he knew better than to try to cover her with a blanket. He used the bathroom, checked the alarms, doors and windows then went back to bed.

When the alarm on his watch woke him, the rain had stopped and the sky was dusted with fading light. Tonight they would present Natasha as the next target at Irina's hotel. Going out to the kitchen, he made a pot of coffee and a few minutes later Natasha joined him. Without a word, he poured her a cup and handed it over.

~~O~~

Irina came out of the elevator, crossed the lobby and went into the restaurant. With Clint backing her up, Natasha followed, taking a table within Irina's sight though not obviously so.

In all the times they'd met in the past, Clint hadn't had the chance to watch Natasha work an op from beginning to end. Sitting in the lobby where he could see everything, he pretended to read the newspaper while listening through the earwig as Natasha fended off one man after the other. He thought about joining her to put a stop to the advances, changing his mind when she spoke to someone. Clint heard an older man's surprised voice first.

"_Veronique__ Dessaigne?_"

Natasha responded in French and with a smile in her voice. "_Monsieur and Madame Thibault, it's a pleasure to see you again. Will you join me?_"

An older woman answered, "_Bless you, child. It seems the hostess has lost our reservation._"

"_Will you be in town long, Veronique?_" Again the man spoke.

"_Not long. My father has taken ill and I must return home tomorrow._" From their conversation, Clint surmised that they'd met each other on a previous job Natasha had taken several years ago in which an acquaintance of the couple had been discovered to be a war criminal hiding out in their summer home town Monaco.

He tuned out all voices except Natasha's awaiting the prearranged signal, and finally it came. "_No dessert for me, thank you. I must be going._"

"_Please give your dear father our best._" Madame Thibault's tone was full of sympathy.

"_I will, Madame._" Impressed, Clint grinned as he folded the newspaper and carried it to the table where he'd found it then pretended interest in a framed painting near the restaurant's entrance. "_Enjoy the rest of your meal. A bientôt._"

"_A bientôt, Veronique._"

Natasha made her way to the exit, declined the concierge's offer to call for a car thanking him with a tempting smile saying she wished to walk back to her hotel. Right on cue, Irina followed and Clint fell into step far enough behind Irina to keep her from getting antsy.

Keeping the pace slow so Irina could catch up to her, Natasha turned down a side street where most of the businesses had long closed for the day leaving pools of light separated by long patches of darkness. At the next corner, Natasha stumbled and Irina was immediately on her.

Through the earwig, Clint heard the women fighting. Natasha had skill on her side, but Irina was driven by madness and did not go down easy.

As he turned the corner, Irina ran at Natasha with a knife identical to the one that had killed Drakov, her right arm upraised. Natasha deflected her overhead thrust, grabbing her wrist and pressing on the outside of her elbow hyperextending the joint. Irina cried out but didn't drop the knife. She swung her left fist and Natasha's head snapped to the side making Clint wince. The red-head's only response was a low growl deep in her throat as she swept Irina's feet from under her.

Irina landed with a grunt, somehow still holding onto the knife. Natasha dropped to one knee beside her, smashing Irina's right hand again and again against the ground bloodying the back, her wrist snapping with a sickening crunch. The knife clattered as it fell from Irina's now lax fingers, though she still fought, kicking her legs, bucking her hips and screaming incoherently. With a growl, Natasha swung her right fist and Irina was knocked unconscious.

Clint stood looking down at the woman who had killed at least ten others, all because of Natasha, and though he wanted to despise her, he couldn't. She was a victim just like the women whose lives she'd taken. Just like Natasha and he were. They were all victims in one way or another.

He put a hand out to help Natasha stand. She panted and fingered the red area that would become a black eye by morning. "Thanks for your help."

The sarcasm fell thick and heavy between them. In all seriousness, he said, "You had it under control."

Taking out his phone, he called one of his local contacts and made arrangements for her to be taken to a secure facility where she'd get the help she needed. A few minutes later, a car arrived. Clint and Natasha watched as Irina was treated gently by those who'd come for her and just knew Drakov's daughter would never again be allowed to roam free.

Back at the safe house, Clint went to the well-stocked bar and poured two glasses of _oude_ Jenever handing one to Natasha who had not spoken since Irina had been taken away. He saluted her with his glass. "Here's to our first joint collaboration."

"_Spasibo._ And many more."

"_Na zdorovje._" They finished their drinks in silence, each with too much on their minds for talking. Setting his glass on the bar, Clint verified the place was secure. Leaving her to brood alone, he decided it was bedtime. He stopped with one hand on the doorknob of his room when she called out to him.

"Clint?"

"Yeah?" She came down the hall to his side.

"Thanks for having faith in me."

With a shrug, he said, "One of us had to go first."

Arms at her sides, a sad smile crossed her beautiful features. "Trusting others hasn't been a part of my life since before…"

"Before what? You can tell me. I won't judge."

One hand came up as if to touch him then returned to her side. "I…"

The sad smile turned even more so, if possible, though Clint got the impression that tonight's events were no longer the cause. Tilting his head down and to the side, he said, "Whenever you're ready, let me know."

Nodding, Natasha opened the door across the hall, stepped inside and closed it again. And though he waited, he didn't hear the lock engage. It wasn't much, but it was a sign that she _could_ learn to trust, and Clint would not let her down. He could see and feel her pain. It reflected his own, but for different reasons. They were kindred spirits. Two people who understood each other.

Some women and men were better off as friends than lovers. And though he'd been attracted to her from the beginning, that attraction had changed to something less yet more at the same time. Theirs was a friendship that would last a lifetime. All Natasha had to do was let it happen.

Tonight, she'd taken the next step down the road less traveled. And it would make all the difference. Clint would see to it.

_**Fini**_


End file.
